


we haunt ourselves

by slugboy



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, M/M, Memory Loss, Roommates, Sort of. You'll see, The Turtle CAN Help Us (IT), except not really, he's only vaguely in the background but i promise he's helping, there's no 'erased from existence' tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:35:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24594649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slugboy/pseuds/slugboy
Summary: Richie Tozier doesn't exist. He's kind of annoyed with this predicament.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 14
Kudos: 186





	we haunt ourselves

**Author's Note:**

> alrighty folks this is my first ever fanfic, at least the first i've ever finished, so. please be kind! i hope you enjoy!
> 
> trigger warning for blood/hospitals since this fic does begin with eddie after he was shish-kabobbed by IT. also, a general trigger warning for overall anxiety/panic (finding out you don't exist anymore can be a stressful experience), a brief mention of bev's father that doesn't go into much detail, and another extremely brief reference to sonia kaspbrak being homophobic.

It was dying. Richie could feel it; it was like the air was getting lighter with every second that Pennywise became weaker. It shrank and cried until the Losers had It backed up against a corner, with no chance of escape. Richie had his hands pressed against Eddie’s slumped form, willing the blood to stay in his body. He knew that the others needed his help. They needed that extra push to get the job done. They needed him.

Richie turned to Eddie and put his hands on either side of his face, running a hand along his cheek. Eddie’s eyes fluttered, but he otherwise stayed silent. Richie leaned forward and placed a fierce kiss on his forehead, ignoring the voice in the back of his head telling him _don’t touch the other boys, Richie, or they’ll know your secret, your dirty little secret._

“I’m coming back for you, Eds,” Richie whispered against his forehead, breathing him in. He turned away on the exhale, willing himself not to look back until this was all over. The next time he looks at Eddie, he’ll be able to say _we did it, It’s dead, It’s gone._

When Richie reached the others, Pennywise was lashing out with his spider-like claws, one last desperate attempt to survive. Richie bent down and ripped the claw from Its body. He crouched down until they were eye level. He heard a noise of concern come from one of the other losers, but he waved a dismissive hand. He wants to look into this fucker’s eyes as the life bleeds out of them.

“You’ve lost,” Richie said. “You’ll never be the eater of worlds again, you miserable fuck.”

Pennywise laughed, a gross churning cackle like crunching eggshells into damp earth. “Look at you. All grown up,” It spat. “But you’ll always be a scared little boy, Richie. I know you.”

“You don’t fucking know me,” Richie said. He extended his arm, reaching towards its chest, right where he planned to rip out its heart. 

Except, just as he touched its ribs, Pennywise opened his mouth with a guttural cry, and the world went blank.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_That’s my name, that’s my glasses, that’s my shirt—what the fuck! Am I gonna go missing, Bill, am I fucking missing?_

_It’s not real! It’s not real!_

_Beep beep—_

_Shut up, Richie._

_Fucking perv—_

_What’s so fucking funny, dickwad?_

_Richie!_

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_Richie?_

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Richie opened his eyes. Above him, the Deadlights began to stutter and fade. He moved his gaze downward until he reached the Losers, who were standing in a circle with what looked like a heart in their hands. They squeezed it between their joined palms until it squished and cracked, and finally its remains floated into the air, like embers escaping a dying fire. _Haystack would have a field day with that one_ , Richie thought.

Richie groaned, heaving himself off of where he must have fallen and passed out. Nice to know none of his friends seemed to notice, fucking dickheads.

“I’m alive, in case anyone is wondering,” Richie muttered. The Losers were too busy rejoicing and, for Bill and Mike, touching foreheads in a moment that seemed far too intimate for Richie to be watching.

( _Maybe he wasn’t alone after all_ )

It was as he was contemplating this that Richie remembered one incredibly crucial detail.

“Shit, Eddie,” Richie said, before dashing over to his friend. He was pale and sweating, but his eyes were open. That’s all Richie could ask for. “We did it man, we did it, we got Pennywise, man.”

Richie smiled, trying to look Eddie in the eyes, but Eddie just kept looking somewhere over his shoulder, unresponsive. “Eddie?” Richie said, raising a hand to place against his cheek, only—

—only when he touched his cheek, he didn’t feel it, it—

—it went _through him—_

“ _What the fuck_ ,” Richie whispered, running his hand through Eddie’s hair, only to see that Eddie’s hair was going through _him_. “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the actual fucking shit—”

“Fuck, Eddie,” Bill said somewhere behind Richie, and Richie bolted upwards, tripping over his own feet to reach Bill.

“Bill, buddy, something’s fucking wrong with Eddie, man, I can’t—” Richie extended his arm, only for Bill to walk right past him. No, not past him—through him. Richie spun around, eyes wide and face deathly pale. “Bill—” 

Then Beverly walked through his right arm, and Ben, his left. Richie yelped and jumped out of the way before Mike and Stan could do it too.

“We need to get him out of here,” Bill said. “Ben, Mike, help me out here!” 

They were crying, fumbling over themselves in their hurry to get out of the now collapsing cavern. All Richie could do was follow, shouting out words of comfort that fell on deaf ears. He didn’t understand, he didn’t fucking understand what the hell was going on but all he could focus on was _EddieEddieEddie_.

The sunlight blinded him when they finally made it out with only moments to spare. Neibolt collapsed just as the Losers fell to the ground, exhausted from pulling up dead weight.

( _No not dead not dead he’s not dead yet he can’t be_ )

Richie scrambled forward until he was kneeling in front of where Ben held Eddie in his arms. Somewhere in the back of his head, Richie noticed that two Losers were missing—but he couldn’t think about that right now, he couldn’t think he just couldn’t fucking _think_.

“Stay awake, honey, come on,” Beverly sniffled, pressing her grimy hands against Eddie’s wound ( _where the fuck was Richie’s leather jacket that he used to put pressure on the wound, it was right there_ ) while she spoke to him. Eddie would’ve had a few words to say about her pressing her dirty hands against an open wound, if he were conscious enough to speak.

“Listen to Bev, dude, you need to stay the fuck awake if you want to yell about how unsanitary this all is later,” Richie said, sniffing angrily as he cursed the sting in his eyes, willing himself not to cry. “I’m not letting you give up without a fight, man, I’m not.” 

The screeching of tires interrupted his thoughts, as Mike and Stan pulled up with two separate cars. So that’s where the two missing Losers were.

Mike and Ben ended up in one car, trailing behind Stan, Bill, Bev, Richie and Eddie. It was a tight fit in Stan’s car, but Richie wasn’t going to leave Eddie no matter what any of them would say ( _not that any of them were answering him anyway_ ).

 _Am I a ghost?_ Richie thought as he sat across from where Beverly was holding Eddie in the back seat. _Did I beat Eddie to it?_

_Don’t think like that, asshole, he’s not going to die._

Richie heaved in a shuddering breath ( _do ghosts breathe?_ ) and let his hand hover over where Eddie’s ankle laid propped up on the seat. Not touching. 

_Don’t touch the other boys, Richie!_

“Fucking shit,” Richie muttered, gulping down the bile he had felt rising in his throat. “Talk about dramatic irony.”

The trip to the hospital took minutes, it took hours. It was over before he knew it, and yet it felt like an eternity before they finally reached the sliding glass doors. Eddie was taken away immediately, a high priority patient given the giant fucking hole in his chest. The Losers couldn’t follow where he was taken, so they were left to sit in the lobby like the useless assholes they were. Just waiting, and waiting, and waiting. 

Until finally, a nurse came. 

“Friends of Eddie Kaspbrak?”

They all stood up at once, a rush of voices which made the nurse’s eyes widen in surprise for a moment before regaining her composure.

“He’s going to be okay,” she said with a professional smile.

That was all it took for Richie to collapse to the ground, crying in relief. He heaved out breath after sobbing breath, the weight of the world lifting from his shoulders. _He’s going to be okay._ The rest of the gang seemed to be in a similar state, although much less dramatic than their resident Trashmouth. They hugged each other and cried together, all the while Richie sat and watched. Maybe being a ghost wouldn’t be so bad, if he can watch them be together like this. It did sting a bit that no one seemed to be mourning him, but what did he expect, really? 

At least, that’s what he thought until he heard Stan say, “I can’t believe we all made it out alive.”

And then Bev said, “We’re the lucky six, of course we all made it out.”

And then Richie said, for the dozenth time, “What the fuck?”

So, Richie Tozier was not a ghost, then. 

Richie Tozier had been erased from existence.

✢

Richie follows Eddie home, because of course he does. 

It wasn’t his plan, originally. The last thing he wanted to do was trail Eddie like a lost puppy only to be stuck watching him shack up with his mother-wife in their cookie-cutter white-picket-fence home. But that had changed when he snuck into Eddie’s room at the hospital (it wasn’t creepy! If he’s going to be stuck in kinda-not-actually-a-ghost-ville then he might as well use it to his advantage) and caught him right in the middle of a heavy phone conversation. 

“No, Myra, I’m not—stop—” Eddie was saying.

Richie felt the familiar pit of guilt in his stomach for eavesdropping on his friend, but he couldn’t help but listen. Instead, he stepped forward, the hysterical crying on the other line getting louder as he got closer to Eddie. Eddie was scrambling, trying to get a single word in while Myra continued to scream about how he “wasn’t the Eddie she knew” and how he needs to “come home, Eddie-bear, we’ll fix you.” 

Eddie breathed in. “I’m not coming home. Goodbye, Myra.” With that, he hung up, heaving out a shaking, relieved breath. 

“You’re the bravest man I know, Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie had said, refusing to acknowledge the crack in his own voice.

When the rest of the gang were finally able to go in, it didn’t take long for Eddie to tell them about the divorce. Of course, being the amazing friends that they were, they provided endless support. Every single one of them offered their places for Eddie to stay, but apparently, it wasn’t necessary.

“Actually, uh,” Eddie said, suddenly sheepish. “I already have an apartment in New York. I’ve had it for a while, in fact.”

Richie’s eyebrows had risen to the top of his forehead. So this divorce was a long time coming, then. 

The Losers were no better, each sporting a different level of surprise on their faces, although they were obviously trying to be more discreet about it. 

“At least let one of us take care of you for a while, just until you’re well enough to take care of yourself,” Beverly had said.

“No, no, I’ll be alright,” Eddie, the stubborn bastard, said.

And truthfully, Richie believed him. He remembered hearing the nurses marveling about it while Richie had snuck around trying to get more info on Eddie’s situation. Eddie was healing at an alarming rate, which doctors weren’t sure how to explain away. Luckily, the adults of Derry never had a problem with turning the other way when something didn’t make sense. Otherwise, there would be news reporters galore trying to get a peek at the medical miracle that was Eddie Kaspbrak. 

So, Eddie went it alone. Well, for the most part. He didn’t know about the ghostly companion that hitched a ride with him to New York.

That’s how Richie found himself in Eddie’s apartment now. He was staring at Eddie ( _he’s always staring at Eddie_ ), who was walking around his place with relative ease, as if Beverly hadn’t been holding in his guts weeks before.

Was the thing that kept Eddie alive the same thing that’s keeping Richie here, when common sense tells him he should be nothing more than atoms right now? If Pennywise’s plan was to erase Richie from existence, how the actual fuck is he still kicking—relatively speaking? Was It just too weak to get the job thoroughly done? 

_Or did something intervene?_ Richie thought. _Something just as, if not more powerful than the eater of worlds himself?_

The sound of ringing made Richie jump, bringing his attention to where Eddie sat on the couch, his laptop open in front of him. Richie rushed over, leaning over Eddie’s shoulder to look at the screen. Within seconds, the ringing ceased, and the screen was filled with the faces of the people he loved most. 

This was the first group FaceTime the Losers had done in a while. Richie knew they texted each other in a groupchat often, but he could never easily read what they said since Eddie had a habit of pacing the apartment when he typed. Also, Richie felt too much like he was intruding. Which was dumb, since he was there friend, but—well, was he their friend when they didn’t even remember him? 

“Eddie!” Mike called out cheerily. Good old Mike, bringing a smile to your face with ease. “How are you?”

“Oh, uh, good, fine. Still up and kicking, I guess, but,” Eddie sputtered, waving his hand through the air as if he could physically wave the topic away, “we don’t have to focus on me. How are you guys? Ben, Bev, aren’t you on a yacht right now? What the fuck is with that?” Eddie’s obvious means of deflection was enough to make all the Losers give him matching looks of disbelief.

“Dude, you got shish-kebabbed, let them worry about you,” Richie said. It seemed that the others agreed.

“Ben and I are doing good, but you know we can come over if you need us, don’t you?” Beverly said.

“Patty’s been wanting a vacation, I’m sure she’d love to see the sights in New York,” Stan added.

“That’s really unnecessary, guys,” Eddie said, flushing slightly at the attention. “Honestly, I’ve been great! Super great, super duper great.”

“One more time with feeling and they might just believe you, Eds,” Richie said mockingly.

“So things have been...great?” Bill said, smiling.

Eddie sighed. “Yes. I’m fine. I’d really rather just talk about literally anything else, that’s all.”

Luckily their friends were kind enough to drop the subject, even if they seemed just as dubious as Richie about how “great” Eddie was doing. They moved on instead to talk about their lives post-Derry. Stan and Patty were planning on finally taking that trip to Buenos Aires that Stan had to postpone, due to obvious reasons. Ben and Beverly were living it up on a yacht, just as Eddie mentioned, like the beautiful rich bastards they were. Bill started a book that he thinks he actually has a good ending to (for once), and Mike was out of Derry, finally seeing the world, just as he deserves.

Which was why it made Richie so nervous when he noticed some of the Losers getting fidgety. First it was Stan, whose eyes had started darting to the side. Then Beverly, who was looking between Ben and the screen. Then Mike, then Bill, and eventually Eddie too. They all looked as if they had something to say, but weren’t sure how to say it. 

“Okay, out with it, one of you, please! This is gonna kill me.” Richie stopped, then snorted. “Okay, bad word choice, but seriously.”

Luckily, Bill was the answer to his prayers. “Do...do any of you...”

“Spit it out, Big Bill,” Richie muttered impatiently. It felt like when he would watch a movie and start yelling at the characters on screen, knowing they can’t hear him, but still somehow feeling like his commentary made a difference.

“Do any of you,” Bill continued, “feel like something is m-mmm...missing?”

Richie paused, gasping softly. He held his breath, eyes darting across the screen to gain everyone’s reactions. No one looked surprised. In fact, they seemed relieved.

“I thought that was just me,” Stan said.

“Us too,” Ben said, Bev nodding along next to him.

“Same here,” said Eddie, and Richie looked at him. “Like...like the fight is over, but we left something behind. But I can’t remember what.”

Richie felt himself growing paler, not daring to disrupt them. This was the moment, this was it. They would remember him, maybe even say his name. Richie would look at one of them and see a spark in their eye that meant they knew, they remembered, and they’d finally acknowledge his existence.

That little bit of hope shriveled away when Mike spoke.

“It’s over,” Mike said. “We killed It, and we all made it out. We’re just overthinking it because we never imagined we would all survive. But we did. We’re okay.” He smiled reassuringly at the others, which seemed to help them relax. It had the opposite effect on Richie.

“What?” Richie said. “Wait, no, hold on—”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Bill said.

“No! Fuck!” Richie shouted, leaning even closer to the screen. 

The others all gave their own noises of agreement; all except for Eddie, who just blankly stared at his coffee table. One by one, the Losers had to leave the call and get back to their new lives, with Richie yelling more and more desperately as they trickled out. Finally, the call ended. It was just him and Eddie once again.

“The lucky six,” Eddie said to no one. He closed the laptop, sliding his finger along the edge absently. He sighed, placing it beside him on the couch before leaning back again. “Why the hell does it not sound right?”

“Because it’s wrong! It’s fucking wrong!” Richie said, swiping his hand at Eddie, only for it to phase through his head, as he knew it would. “ _Fuck_! Bastard! Shit, fucking— _shit_!”

Eddie blinked, then got up and walked away, leaving Richie alone in the living room.

Richie groaned, long and loud. He sat down, his elbows on his knees, hands in his hair. He wanted to pull at the hair at his neck and _scream_. So he did. He screamed, and he shouted every vulgar word under the Sun, and he kept on shouting until his screams became sobs, and he cried for the first time since the hospital in Derry. 

Eddie came back into the room, now wearing pajamas. Richie got up and followed him into the kitchen.

“I’m right here, Eds, can’t you hear me?” Richie said desperately, trying to grab his arm, his shoulder, anything. But he just kept phasing through him like the world’s most untalented ghost. “Just listen to me! I’m right here, I’m right fucking here!”

Eddie grabbed a glass out of the cupboard and poured himself some water.

“Come on! I know you can feel that something is wrong, asshole! That’s _me_! It’s because I’m not there! Just—just fucking hear me! Fuck!” Richie screamed, all the while Eddie sipped gingerly from his cup of water, probably wondering how likely it is that he chokes on an ice cube. Wouldn’t that be the real joke—man gets impaled by an evil space clown and survives, only to die from choking on an ice cube that wouldn’t melt quick enough. 

“Please hear me,” Richie said brokenly. Eddie blinked, then took the last sip of his water, putting it in the dishwasher before heading down the hall towards his room. Richie followed him all the way up to the door.

“Eds,” he said, voice cracking. “ _Please_.”

Eddie closed the door and went to bed. Outside Eddie’s bedroom, Richie sat on the cold hardwood floor. He took his glasses off and stared at the door through blurry vision until the sun rose once again. 

✢

Eddie felt lost. Directionless. It had been a month since he left Derry, and he’s almost completely healed (a fact he tries not to think too hard about), save for a nasty scar on his chest and back, as well as the one on his cheek from Bowers. He had just started going back to work, but he took today off, and he spent half the morning beating himself up about it. 

He should go back to work. He should. He needs to start living his own life now that no one was stopping him. And that’s the thing—Sonia was dead, Myra was out of his life, Pennywise was long gone. So what’s stopping him now? Why does he feel like there’s something, something monumentally important, that he’s missing?

Missing. That’s the word he’s stuck on. Because it’s correct, something is _missing_ , but what the hell could it possibly be? He remembers the Losers now

( _are you sure, Eddie?_ )

and he remembers everything else from Derry

( _not everything, something’s not there, a gap_ )

so what is he missing? Because it’s not just “missing” in the sense that it’s gone, it’s missing in the sense that _he misses it_. That deep, gut-level emotion—he knows it like an old friend. It’s how he felt before all his memories of Derry came back, before Mike called him. He missed his friends even before he knew they existed; this horrible ache in his chest, this feeling that things weren’t quite right without them. As soon as he saw them at the Jade of Orient, that feeling evaporated as quickly as the phony medicine in his inhaler. They all clicked together, and everything just felt right again. 

Then it came back.

After the last fight with Pennywise, sometime between getting skewered and waking up in the Derry hospital, that empty feeling came back. Everything just felt completely, utterly wrong. Of course he was relieved to be there, all six of them

( _six, Eddie, is six right?_ )

together again. They survived, they destroyed It, and now they could go on to live their lives without fear. He should be happy. He should be content, at the very least. Instead, Eddie is pacing his living room floor, muttering to himself like a lunatic trying to solve an unsolvable equation. 

“What is it?” Eddie mumbled feverishly. “What the hell is it?”

Eddie walked to the kitchen cupboard, taking out a mug. He placed it on the counter, staring at it for 12 seconds exactly, before putting it back. His mind was elsewhere, focused on that itch at the back of his head. _Come on come on come on_ , it said. _You know something is missing. Think think think think think._

Eddie turned around and leaned his back against the kitchen counter, staring out at the living room. He let his eyes graze along his small apartment, as if something will appear that fits perfectly in the empty gap in his head, and that feeling of wrongness will finally go away. Maybe he’ll see a decorative candle that he forgot about and go “Oh! That’s what I was missing!” and everything will go back to normal.

Nothing of the sort happened. The construction outside seemed to get incrementally louder as Eddie got more frustrated, his shoulders rising up to meet his ears as the tension in his body increased. 

“Why,” Eddie grit out through clenched teeth, “do I feel like this?”

Eddie let out a few breaths through his nose, jaw tense, waiting for an answer to come out of thin air. Of course, none came. Eddie shook his head, letting it fall into his hands, and groaned.

Eddie lifted his head and shouted at the ceiling, “What the fuck am I missing!”

“Me, asshole!”

Eddie screamed. He’s not ashamed to admit that he screamed like a child, high pitched and terrified. He whipped his head around to find the source of the voice who answered his question. Was there an intruder in the house? An intruder who felt like indulging Eddie in his madman ramblings? 

Not wanting to be caught off guard again, Eddie grabbed the nearest object to protect himself—which happened to be salad tongs. Not ideal, but Eddie figured he could make them look like a real weapon if he just waved them around fast enough. 

“Who’s there?” Eddie shouted.

“Dude,” the voice said, “you think an intruder is in your house and you call out to them like a game of Marco Polo?”

“This isn’t Marco Polo, asshat, I’ll call the fucking cops!” Eddie shouted, waving around the tongs like a dagger, crouching in a defensive pose as he walked around the apartment trying to find the hidden man.

“Wait, fuck, are you—are you talking to me?” 

“Of course I’m fucking talking to you, you fucking moron, what the fuck! Where the fuck are you? Fuck!” Eddie rambled, scared out of his mind and confused as hell.

“Eds?”

“WHAT THE FUCK!” Eddie screamed again, jumping a foot in the air and spinning around so fast he nearly topples over, because the voice had been right next to him—and yet there was no one there. 

“You can hear me?”

“How the—what the—yes, of fucking course, what the fuck,” Eddie said. He spins around once more for good measure, but no, there was no other person in the apartment other than him. Eddie whimpered, holding the tongs close to his chest, like a shield. “I don’t wanna do this again, fuck, fuck, stop it, please.”

The voice paused for a moment, then said, softly, perhaps even kindly, “Eds, you’re okay. I’m not It. I promise.”

“That’s exactly what It would say,” Eddie said.

“Eddie, I swear to you, I’m not Pennywise. You guys killed that motherfucker, remember? He’s gone.”

Eddie stopped to consider that. The voice was right, the Losers told him they crushed It’s heart, it decomposed right in front of their eyes. So it wasn’t Pennywise. Eddie was just fucking crazy.

“Fuck,” Eddie whined.

As if he knew what Eddie was thinking, the voice said, “You’re not crazy.”

“Oh, for fuck’s—what, you can read minds now, too?” Eddie snapped.

“No,” he said. “I just know you.”

Eddie gulped, lowering the tongs to his side. All the tension drained from his shoulders. There was something in the man’s voice—if it even was a man—that sounded...fond, almost. Eddie felt his neck begin to flush, although for the life of him he didn’t know why.

Eddie cleared his throat. “So, are you, like...a ghost?”

“Fuck no, I’m not a fucking ghost,” the voice said incredulously.

“Well, how was I supposed to know?” Eddie shot back.

“I don’t know! But I’m not! I mean...I’m pretty sure,” he said. “I might as well be a ghost though, considering no one can touch me, or see me, or...remember me.”

Eddie tilted his head at the air, “No one remembers you? How do you know for sure? Maybe I could, like, contact your friends or something and ask?”

“Eds. Buddy. You’re just proving my point.”

“Don’t call me Eds,” Eddie said. 

Neither of them spoke for a long moment. Eddie doesn’t even know why he said it. It just felt right. The first time something has felt right since he came back from Derry. 

“What’s your name?” Eddie said. He felt like he needed to know. It was important for him to know.

“Richie,” he said. Yes, that was right. Eddie didn’t know why or how he knew, but he knew that was right.

There was still a good chance that this was all in Eddie’s head, and he was just indulging himself in his madness. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that for the first time in weeks, things were on their way to being as they should be. Things were finally clicking into place.

✢

Eddie is just your average New Yorker. He drives to work, because the subway is just too fucking disgusting to endure. He pays his bills. He talks to his ghost roommate (“I’m not a ghost!”), then he goes to bed. The usual.

It took some getting used to. Eddie knows he should talk to someone, probably a therapist, about this new voice that’s been talking to him—but it wasn’t like he was doing any harm. Richie wasn’t telling him to hurt himself or other people. He was only, at the very most, a mild (sometimes annoying) inconvenience. Especially on the days where Eddie forgot Richie was there, and he would choose the most inopportune moments to surprise Eddie, like while he was putting the dishes away (he had to clean up a broken plate once because of the voice startling him so bad that he dropped it; the voice was surprisingly apologetic).

“How do I know you’re not watching me shower, you perv?” Eddie had said one time.

“Because I know fucking boundaries, dude!” Richie had replied. 

They tested to see if anyone else could hear Richie. The original plan was to go to a coffee shop and see if anyone reacted to hearing Richie’s voice, but Richie thought it would be a good idea to test it out even earlier. Which translated into Richie making obscene sexual noises in the elevator while Eddie had to keep a straight face so the stranger standing next to him wouldn’t ask what was wrong. He pretended to go on his phone to make it seem like he was angry at whoever he was texting, rather than the invisible man still moaning in his ear. 

The stranger didn’t react to Richie’s voice at all, so that confirmed Eddie’s suspicions at least. Unfortunately for him, that just meant Richie could laugh freely at the disgruntled and flustered look on Eddie’s face.

Now they were back at the apartment, and Richie was trying to convince Eddie to tell the Losers about him for the dozenth time. 

“Come on, man!”

“No! Why would I tell them about you?” Eddie said from where he sat in the living room, stretched out along the couch, talking to the air.

“Because you know me!” Richie said.

Eddie scoffed. “I think I would remember if I knew you.”

“Oh, like you remembered everyone else when you left Derry after ‘89?”

Eddie huffed, sucking his teeth. He had a point.

“How would I know that, Eddie?” Richie said. “How else would I know your name, and the Losers, and everything else about Derry? About Pennywise?”

Eddie stayed silent. He shifted, feeling like he had to get the nervous energy out of his body somehow. He picked at a string on the blanket hanging across his legs.

“I know these things,” Richie continued, “because I’m the seventh loser.”

“There’s only ever been six of us.”

“That’s not true and you fucking know it.”

Eddie looked out the window, searching for something to focus on that wasn’t his achingly empty apartment. 

“The more likely explanation is that you’re a figment of my subconscious, so of course you would know everything that I know,” Eddie said, quieter than before. Making excuses. Shoving a piece into the puzzle hoping it’ll fit, knowing it won’t.

Eddie heard Richie sigh. He was silent for a long, long moment. Then he spoke, softer than before, meeting Eddie where he was. “Do you ever think about the fight? When everything went wrong?”

Eddie looked back at the apartment, towards the voice. He wondered if Richie had a body that he couldn’t see. Was he sitting down? Was he sitting next to Eddie?

“You mean when the ritual didn’t work?” Eddie said.

“No,” Richie said, even quieter than before. Like he didn’t want to talk about what he was bringing up. “When you got hurt.”

“Oh,” Eddie said. “That.”

“Yeah, that,” Richie said. “Do you ever think about it?”

“I mean, yeah, of course,” Eddie said, stressed. “It’s hard not to think about the gaping hole in your chest, I see the scar every fucking day.”

“No, no, I mean,” Richie said, fumbling around his words. “Do you think about when it happened? How it happened?”

“I thought I had killed it.”

“Yes, you did, but what happened before that? What made you throw that fence post? What prompted you to do it?”

“I—” Eddie said, hand stilling in his lap. He stared out into nothing, racking his brain for information. What happened? What made him throw that fence post? What was he doing? “I-I don’t...”

“You were trying to save someone,” Richie said, softly, kindly. “You were trying to save me.”

There’s a blank spot in Eddie’s memory, this gap that needs filling. He keeps thinking about the fight—he didn’t realize how little he had been thinking about it. There’s something missing, this emptiness that wasn’t there before. 

“I-I can’t...I can’t...remember, I can’t...” Eddie said, drawing in a shaking breath. He felt a single tear escape from his eye.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Richie said, closer than he was before. He must have moved next to Eddie. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, don’t cry. It’s okay.”

“The others,” Eddie said. “They talked about feeling like something was missing. We’ve all felt it.”

“Yeah, buddy. That would be me,” Richie said. He was being so patient for Eddie. Eddie just wanted to cry.

Eddie turned towards the voice, the best he could. He couldn’t see him, or feel him, but he must have been close, because he could hear Richie’s sharp inhale right next to his face.

“You’re real, aren’t you?” Eddie said, barely a whisper. 

“Yes, I am,” Richie said. 

“I’m not crazy.”

“No, you’re not.”

“And,” Eddie faltered, giving himself a moment to breathe before speaking again. “And I know you?”

And Richie said, “Better than anyone in the whole fucking world, Eds.”

✢

Eddie texts the Losers groupchat, while Richie looks over his shoulder. Richie told him to quit his usual pacing around the apartment so that he could read what they said in the groupchat, and Eddie graciously obeyed, sitting still for once on the living room couch. Richie watched Eddie spend about 15 minutes writing and rewriting what he wanted to tell them before he finally sent a text. He told them he’s been hearing a voice, but not to worry because it’s definitely not Pennywise. He told them that the voice says he’s the seventh loser.

‘Do you believe him?’ Bill had texted back almost immediately.

‘I do.’ Eddie had replied.

That was all it took for all of them to respond with confirmation that they were flying out to New York ASAP. Richie wasn’t sure if they believed Eddie at all, but he knew them well enough to know they would be here for him no matter what. It made Richie’s heart ache for that comfort and security that the Losers had provided for him before. He can only hope he’ll have that again.

“What are you going to say when they get here?” Richie asked Eddie.

“Fuck if I know, I’ve already made myself sound like a fucking lunatic,” Eddie grumbled. “Voices in my head. Fuck’s sake.”

“Only one voice, to be exact,” Richie said.

“Oh, thanks, dickwad, that makes me feel so much better,” Eddie said.

“You’re welcome,” Richie said, just to be an asshole.

Eddie groaned, turning to recline back against the couch once again. He stared up at the ceiling for a long time, in which Richie debated if he should go into a different room or something. He felt weird just staring at Eddie, so he started to turn away, but then Eddie called out to him.

“Hey, you still there, Rich?” Eddie said.

Richie tried not to let his heart leap at the nickname. It felt so comforting to have that old nickname back, almost like things were normal. Or as normal as they could be.

“Of course I’m still here, your apartment is, like, two feet wide,” Richie said, because he didn’t know how to handle the seriousness in Eddie’s voice without making a joke.

Eddie just rolled his eyes, ignoring the jab at his apartment. “What’s it like?” He said, turning his gaze to the floor. 

“What’s what like?” Richie asked, even though he knew.

“You know,” Eddie said, and Richie did know. “What’s it like, wherever you are?”

Richie paused, thinking over his answer. “Well, it’s not like I’m in a different place. I’m still, you know, _here_. The only difference is that no one can see me, or touch me, or hear me.”

“I can hear you,” Eddie reminded him.

“Yeah,” Richie said, sounding far more vulnerable than he liked. “You can.”

The corner of Eddie’s mouth quirked up into a small smile, before dropping again. “Can you see yourself?”

Richie made a confused noise.

“I mean, like, you’re invisible to the rest of the world, but do you actually have a body? Or are you just a voice floating around? Like your—your soul, or whatever?”

“Jesus, Eds, where do you come up with these questions?” 

“Just answer, fuckhead,” Eddie said.

“Jeez, alright, um,” Richie looked down at his body. “I mean, I can see it. I can feel myself.”

“Gross.”

“Not like that!” Richie screeched, and Eddie laughed. “I mean, like, right now I can pinch my arm and feel it. I can rub my hands together and shit, I just can’t interact with anything else. God knows how many times I tried to turn on your light switch just to get your attention before you were finally able to hear me.”

“You—what?” Eddie had turned his eyes upward, in the general direction of Richie. He had his eyebrows furrowed, forming that wrinkle in his forehead that Richie wanted to smooth away.

Richie froze, realizing what he let slip. “Uh.”

They both stayed silent for a few awkward seconds, until Eddie said, “How long had you been here before I started hearing your voice?”

Richie huffed, for once very thankful that Eddie couldn’t see the blush he knew was taking over his neck and cheeks. “It’s not that hard to connect the dots, man, you don’t need me to tell you that.”

Eddie looked down, fiddling with his fingers in his lap. “I mean—yeah, that, uh. Logically, I guess I knew that, I just. Never really thought about that.” He cleared his throat. Richie felt his eyebrow twitch upward. 

“Listen, uh,” Richie started. “I told you before, but I just wanna let you know, I’m fully aware of, like, boundaries and shit—”

“No, yeah, of course—”

“I never went into your room, that was your private space, so—”

“Yeah, I get it—”

“I mean, a man has a right to, you know,” Richie stopped to make a vulgar hand gesture, only to remember Eddie couldn’t see him. “Oh, fuck, you can’t see what I’m doing. I’m making a jacking off motion with my hand.”

“Richie, for Christ’s sake,” Eddie shouted, shoving his red face into his hands. “I’m ending this conversation, I don’t have the mental capacity to handle this shit.”

Richie chuckles, glad that the tension in the air lifted, if only just slightly. 

“What do you do to pass the time when I’m gone?”

“I thought you said this conversation was over?” Richie said. 

“Yeah, when you started talking about jacking off, because you have the humor of a 12-year-old, apparently,” Eddie said, making that familiar chopping motion with his hands. 

“Well, you’re asking me what I do in my free time, who says that’s not gonna venture into jacking off territory as well?” Richie said, hoping Eddie could sense that he was wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“I swear to _fucking_ god, if you did anything of the sort in my nice, clean apartment, I will kill you,” Eddie said heatedly. 

Richie just snickered obnoxiously, enjoying Eddie’s facial expressions morph from anger to incredulity.

“Rich, you did _not_ ,” Eddie said, growing visibly tenser the longer Richie neglected to answer. 

Finally, Richie took pity on Eddie and said, “No, I’ve never done anything of the sort. One of the perks of not existing, you don’t have the urge to eat, drink, or jerk it like a normal fucking human being.”

“Hey,” Eddie said, suddenly serious again. Richie was getting whiplash. “You’re normal.”

Richie scoffed, “Yeah, sure. The epitome of normality, that’s me.”

“Obviously your...predicament is unusual,” Eddie said delicately, making Richie laugh again. Eddie huffed out a small laugh in return, which made Richie’s rib cage burst with butterflies. Sure, he doesn’t need to eat or sleep, but he still gets flustered like a motherfucker. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not normal. At least, no more than the rest of us. We’re Losers, none of us have normal lives.”

Richie tried to swallow around the sudden lump that formed in his throat after hearing Eddie refer to him as a Loser. That was the first time he had done that. 

“Quit getting sappy on me, Eddie Spaghetti, Christ,” Richie said, sniffing.

“Sounds like I’m not the one getting emotional,” Eddie countered, though his eyes were kind. 

_His eyes._

“Hey, um. Can you do me a favor?” Richie said, already moving from where he previously stood in the living room like a statue.

“Yeah, anything,” Eddie said, so easily, like he really would do anything for this man he didn’t even remember. It made Richie’s breath hitch.

“Keep your eyes focused on one thing,” Richie said.

Eddie made a confused noise in the back of his throat, “What, like the floor?”

“No, no, uh, how about—” Richie looked around, before spotting something. “That copy of Bill’s book that I know you haven’t read, sitting by the TV. Look at that.”

“I haven’t had the time to read, asshole,” Eddie grumbled, but he does as he was told. He locks his gaze onto the book. 

Richie takes a deep breath, then moves so that he is in between Eddie and the book (there’s plenty of space between the two, so it’s an easy task). Richie bites at the inside of his cheek, gathering what small amount of courage he has. Then, he looked into Eddie’s eyes. 

It was like Eddie was looking at him, _really_ looking at him. Richie felt the familiar sting of tears return almost immediately, overwhelmed with the feeling of being seen, even if it was just the illusion of it.

“Richie?” Eddie said, whispering carefully.

“Yes?” Richie said, keeping his voice at the same quiet level. Eddie jumped a little, as he always does when Richie’s voice ends up being closer than Eddie expects.

“Are you...I mean,” Eddie hesitated, finding his words. He blinked, but stubbornly kept his eyes where Richie said to keep them. “Are you—here, in front of me? Am I...am I looking at you?”

Richie had planned only to look at Eddie in the eyes, but he couldn’t help but let his gaze flicker downward, where Eddie let out a shuddering breath. He looked back up into Eddie’s eyes, who’s pupils had gone wide. With what emotion, Richie didn’t know. He could only hope.

“Yeah, Eds,” Richie said. “You’re looking at me.”

✢

Mike is the first to arrive, and after weeks of nonstop talking, Richie finds himself unable to make a sound. He tells himself that he’s just waiting until they’re all together, but then Stan shows up, and then the rest—and Richie still can’t find his voice. 

_What if they can’t hear me? Eddie couldn’t hear me for a month at the beginning, what if it’s the same with them?_

Richie could feel his face pale and a thin line of sweat coat his forehead. He didn’t think it was possible to get nauseous. 

The Losers were all sat in a circle, cramped in Eddie’s small living room. Richie could tell they were starting to doubt Eddie’s claims about Richie. Eddie was nervously looking around the room, most likely having noticed how Richie had stopped talking as soon as one of the Losers arrived. Richie felt like an ass leaving him hanging like this.

“So,” Bill finally said, taking a look around the apartment. “Can you hear the voice now?”

Eddie huffed, irritated. “No. The prick’s been unusually quiet since you all arrived. Which may be a blessing in disguise since he hasn’t been able to shut up since I started hearing him.”

It was an instinct, really. He didn’t really think before he shouted an affronted, “Hey!”

The effect was instantaneous—everyone in the room jumped in alarm. 

“What the fuck was that?”

“W-who the _fuck_ —”

Eddie sat upright, eyes wide, “You heard it? You heard him?”

“Yes, we fucking heard him,” Stan said, looking slightly green. Eddie looked to the others, who all nod in agreement. 

“Oh thank _fuck_ , I’m not crazy,” Eddie sighed, sagging back into his seat.

The next few minutes went by in a blur, most of which included Richie trying not to hurl. Was it possible for him to throw up? He didn’t want to find out. All he knew was that he was the happiest he had been since Eddie started hearing his voice, and the only way he knew how to process such overwhelming emotions was by talking—but for once he had no idea what to say. It may have been best if he didn’t speak too much at once, however. It seemed like poor Ben would faint if Richie were to go into a classic Trashmouth babbling spree. 

“What’s your name?” Beverly finally asked. God bless her, she was the most calm and controlled out of all of them, rubbing soothing circles on Ben’s back.

“You told them a disembodied voice was talking to you but you never got around to telling them my name?” Richie asked Eddie. 

Eddie let out a string of incredulous noises before shouting, “It’s been a busy day, asshole!”

Richie snorts before saying, “My name is Richie.”

 _Richie_.

Something changes. The atmosphere in the room shifts. He can feel it. They can feel it, all of them. He can tell in the way Bill gasps softly, by the way Stan’s spine straightens and Beverly’s eyelids flutter. And then—

Mike’s looking at him. Richie thinks it’s just a trick of the light, that Mike’s eyes are gonna trail past him just like everyone’s does every single day, but they stay. Then Richie looks at the others, only to realize everyone’s eyes are on him. He looks at Eddie, and sure enough, he’s pale as a ghost, looking directly at Richie.

“Holy fuck,” Eddie breathes.

Richie gulps, looking around the room, wishing it were possible to look everyone in the eye at once. “You can see me? You can all see me?”

“It was like—” Bev started, “like you were...camouflaged, or something. Like the camera was on you but it was never focused until now. It’s weird.”

Richie laughs. It’s wet and ugly because he feels like he’s about to start crying at any moment, but he laughs, loud and carefree because they can _see_ him. They can really, actually see him. And—and if they can see him then maybe that means—

“You don’t look exactly like I imagined,” Mike said.

Richie feels his heart drop straight through his stomach.

“You...” Richie took a breath, steadying his heartbeat. “You mean you don’t...remember me?”

Everyone has the decency to look appropriately disheartened.

“It’s fine,” Richie says quickly, laughing as he wipes away a traitorous tear from his eye. “You can see me, that’s—that’s definitely a step better from how things were before.”

“And you’re sure you’re part of our group? The...‘seventh loser’?” Stan asks cautiously. 

“I mean, it makes sense,” Ben says. “We all felt like something was missing. Richie, when did you...um.”

“Stop existing?” Richie said.

“Well. Yeah,” Ben said.

“Right at the end of our fight with Pennywise,” Richie said. “He zapped me or some shit, and poof, suddenly you guys couldn’t see me or hear me or anything. I think he originally intended to completely wipe me from existence, but he must’ve been too weak or some shit because, well, obviously I’m still around.”

Eddie shifted in his seat at the mention of Pennywise intending to completely erase Richie from existence. Richie spared him a meaningful glance, resisting the urge to grab hold of his hand and run his thumb over his knuckles. 

_Would he feel me, now that he can see me?_

“Well,” Ben continued, “that would explain the reason why we all felt like something was missing. We talked about it at one point, over video chat—”

“I know, I was there, I was screaming at Eddie the whole time,” Richie said.

“No you weren’t!” Eddie said.

“Well, obviously you couldn’t hear me yet, dipshit!”

“Shut the fuck up, you fucking Sasquatch,” Eddie snapped.

And Richie didn’t want to admit that it made his entire heart explode with happiness to hear Eddie make fun of his appearance, because at least he could see him. Instead, Richie said, “Wow, you’ve only seen me for five minutes and you’ve already wounded my ego.”

“Something tells me you’re used to me making fun you for looking like a fucking giraffe,” Eddie said.

“And you would be right,” Richie said, sounding far more fond than he intended. He deliberately ignored the look Bev and Stan shared while Eddie wasn’t looking.

“How do we get him back, M-mmm-Mikey?” Bill said. “How do we get our mem-memories back?”

They all looked to Mike, who looked back in alarm. “Why are you asking me?”

“You’re the one who does all the research and shit. You knew how to bring our memories back before,” Eddie said.

“Well, I guess we just have to remember on our own, like before,” Mike said, shrugging.

“We were only able to remember Derry because we had, like, physical things to jog our memories,” Richie said. “How am I supposed to remind you guys of who I am when all physical evidence of my existence is,” he stops to make a ‘ _poof_!’ gesture with his hands, “vamoose?”

“We might just have to believe,” Mike said, eyebrows upturned in a way that showed his optimism was forced.

“Oh, cause the power of belief worked so well for us last time,” Richie snapped.

“Hey,” Eddie said, voice calmer than Richie had ever heard it. It was quiet, like it was only meant for Richie to hear. “It’s okay.”

Richie sighed and nodded mutely. “Sorry, Mike. I didn’t mean that.”

“Well, that’s just further proof that you’re the seventh loser if you remember my failed ritual,” Mike laughed bitterly. Bill put a hand on his arm.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Bill muttered to him. Mike gave him a grateful smile.

“I know, I know,” Mike said. “I wasn’t saying that to get pity. My point is, even though the ritual didn’t work, the power of belief still did a lot to help us win that fight. We made It believe it was small, and we were able to kill It that way. Belief is a lot stronger than we think.”

Richie thinks it sounds like a flimsy plan, but it’s not as if he has any better ideas. He nods his head along with the rest of the Losers, who are probably thinking along the same lines as him.

Given that Eddie’s tiny apartment wasn’t meant to hold seven people, the visiting Losers go off to a nearby hotel—close enough that they could all be over within minutes if something changed.

 _Like if I disappear again_ , Richie thought, shaking his head to dismiss the idea. 

He couldn’t stop thinking about it, though. He’s here now, they can see him, but what if that changes? What if by the time the sun comes up, Eddie and everyone else will have forgotten him all over again? What if he can’t fix it the next time? 

Then there was the one massive question that’s been on Richie’s mind since he locked eyes with Eddie.

“Well it’s good to know I’m not an actual crazy person,” Eddie said as he walked back from where he said goodbye to Bill at the door, sitting comfortably close to Richie on the couch.

Richie manages to huff out an exhale through his nose that somewhat sounded like a laugh. He fiddled with the cushion on the couch. He could touch it, he could feel it’s rough texture against his fingers, so if he can touch physical material now then that _must_ mean—

“Hey,” Eddie said, lowering his head to look Richie in the eyes. “Everything alright? I figured you’d be more enthusiastic than this.”

Richie smiled, hesitating. Then, he let out a defeated sigh. “I dunno, Eds, I just,” he trailed off again. 

“Whatever it is,” Eddie said, “it’s okay.”

Richie turned his head away. Still getting used to how intense it feels when Eddie’s attention is on him. “I know you guys can hear me,” he finally continued. “And you can see me, even. But I don’t know if you...if you can—”

“Touch?” Eddie finished for him, and Richie felt his face burn.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Well,” Eddie said, “lucky for us, there’s a simple solution.”

Richie turns to look at Eddie, who has shifted on the couch so that his whole body is facing Richie, legs crossed. His posture is open and inviting, not an ounce of hesitation in his expression. Richie mimics him, crossing his legs and everything. For a long moment he just sits there, staring. Then, Eddie nods his head in encouragement, and Richie lifts his hand.

Eddie’s skin is soft, his fingers long and elegant. Richie moves his own fingertips over the knuckles on Eddie’s hand, thumb brushing over his veins. Eddie, for the most part, stays still. He lets Richie go at his own pace, taking in what it’s like to feel another human’s skin again. But then he stretches out his fingers, turns over his hand so Richie can skim over his palm. Richie knows he’s blushing, surely, but when he chances a glance, he’s ecstatic to see Eddie stubbornly staring at Richie’s knee while the apples of his cheeks glow a brilliant pink.

Richie moves his hand upward, and Eddie startles a bit. Richie retracts his hand in alarm, and Eddie looks immediately guilty.

“No, no, sorry, you just startled me,” Eddie said, grabbing Richie’s hand to bring it towards his own face again. “Please. Keep going.”

Richie swallows, his tongue feeling like it doesn’t belong in his own cotton-dry mouth. He lets Eddie guide his hand back to Eddie’s cheek. The scar from Bowers is a pale pink color, and he can feel it raised against his own skin. He drags his hand down so that his thumb is over the scar, and his palm is covering the majority of Eddie’s jaw. It’s smooth, clean-shaven, the way he knew Eddie to be.

“I know this must be completely fucking weird for you,” Richie muttered, “given I’m still basically a total stranger to you.”

“It should be,” Eddie said. “It should be weird. I should be freaking out about this. I mean, you’re right, I don’t even know who you are but...but it feels...”

Eddie trails off, breathing in a sharp inhale when Richie’s thumb just barely skims over his bottom lip.

“It feels...?” Richie murmured, urging him to go on. He drags his hand down, cupping Eddie’s neck. He lets his thumb sit against Eddie’s throat, feeling the movement of his Adam’s apple when he gulps.

“Eds,” Richie said, transfixed.

“It feels right,” Eddie whispered back.

Their eyes lock, and Richie feels it, and he knows Eddie feels it too. He’s surprised his hair isn’t standing on end. It’s fucking obvious, and he’s two seconds away from leaning in when Eddie’s phone buzzes with a text alert, and they jump apart.

“I should—” Eddie starts.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry,” Richie says, looking away.

“No, no, it’s—it’s fine, I just—”

“You should probably answer that, yeah.”

Eddie grabs his phone and hurries off to his room, shouting a flustered “goodnight!” when he’s halfway down the hall.

Richie slumps down on the couch, covering his face with a pillow before letting out a pained groan. 

(In his room, Eddie does the same.)

✢

The next morning, Richie takes a shower. It’s the best experience in his entire miserable life. 

He spent the first ten minutes of his shower just standing there, closing his eyes so he can focus on the feeling of the water hitting his back, trailing down his arms and legs. He never thought he could take the sense of touch for granted. 

Thirty minutes into the shower, Eddie banged on the door, shouting about water conservation. 

Five minutes after that, Richie stepped out of the shower and cursed at himself when he realized what he forgot. He walked out into the living room.

“Uh, Eds?” 

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie said from where he was filling up a glass of water in the kitchen, back turned away from Richie.

“We have a bit of a situation,” Richie said.

“What is it?” Eddie said, raising the drink to his lips as he turned around. When he finally sees Richie, he chokes on his drink for half a second before recovering.

Richie stood in the living room in only a towel wrapped around his waist. He’s hyper-aware of the water dripping from his hair onto his shoulders, and Eddie is just staring. He looks about two seconds away from death, which is approximately how Richie feels.

“I need clothes,” Richie said.

Eddie makes some sort of inhuman noise in the back of his throat. Richie feels himself flush under Eddie’s undivided attention, and to Richie’s horror (or utter delight), Eddie’s eyes track the way he blushes from his cheeks down to his chest. 

“Eds,” Richie said sharply.

Eddie snaps to attention, eyebrows raised as if he were listening the whole time instead of—whatever the hell just happened. “Hm?”

“Clothes,” Richie said.

“Clothes.”

“I need some,” Richie said slowly, as if explaining it to a child.

“Right. Right! Yes, uh, of course,” Eddie said, rushing out of the kitchen and down the hall, Richie in tow. Richie thinks he hears Eddie mutter a ‘ _Jesus Christ_ ’ before entering his room.

He opens his closet and Richie awkwardly stands behind him (a respectable few feet away).

“Do you think other people can see you now? You know, other than me and the other Losers?” Eddie said.

“Oh, uh. I dunno, I haven’t really thought about it,” Richie said. _You’re the only one who matters_ , he doesn’t say. 

“We have to test it out,” Eddie said. He was rummaging through his closet, unfolding and refolding shirts and pants alike, inspecting anything that might possibly fit Richie.

“We already have tested it out! Remember, in the elevator?” Richie said.

“That was before we could see you—and we will absolutely not be repeating the elevator test, you fucking voyeur.”

“I think you mean exhibitionist,” Richie said. “And I wasn’t even indecent!”

“You were— _moaning_ in a public place!” Eddie snapped, stopping his mission to find clothes just to turn to Richie and do that hand chopping motion. Richie loves it when he does that.

“And it proved no one but you could hear me,” Richie said, opening his palms upwards as if to say ‘you’re welcome’.

“Yeah, well, we need to run another test. Preferably without the grade school humor, thank you very much,” Eddie said, shoving a giant shirt that he usually used to sleep in at Richie, it being the only thing that looks close to his size. “If you can interact with the material world now, chances are you can interact with people other than the Losers. But we don’t know if that just goes for touching you or seeing you as well.”

“Well, if you wanted to watch people touch me, all you had to do was ask,” Richie said, holding the shirt to his chest. 

“Shut!” Eddie grabbed a random pair of pants and shoved them forcefully at Richie’s chest. “Shut up! Fucking gross.”

Richie snickered at the flush on Eddie’s cheeks. Eddie turned across the room to the chest of drawers next to his bed, opening it to reveal a pack of new underwear.

“Here,” Eddie said, tossing them to Richie. 

Richie fumbled for the package, nearly dropping it before getting a proper grip. “What, you just have underwear still in the package on hand?”

“You never know what a guest might need! It’s only polite,” Eddie said.

“Apparently not enough to warrant clothes my size,” Richie said, just to be a dick.

“Okay, asshat, this isn’t a fucking hotel, alright? And even five star hotels don’t give you new fucking clothes, you pretentious fuck,” Eddie rambled. 

“The mediocre five star hotels don’t,” Richie said, delighted in the way Eddie’s entire face scrunched up in annoyance.

“What the fuck do you think five star means!” Eddie said, voice getting more shrill with every second that Richie pushed his buttons. “Just get the fuck out and get dressed!”

Richie laughed, his entire body moving with the force of it. He gathered the items of clothing and left to change in the bathroom. After a few minutes, Richie returned (now fully clothed) to see Eddie on the phone.

“You’re the only person I trust to make sure he doesn’t buy assless chaps,” Eddie grumbled into the receiver.

Richie rose an eyebrow at the laughter he could hear on the other end of the call. “Thanks, Bev. I’ll see you in a few,” Eddie said, and hung up.

“Ah, Miss Scarlet!” Richie said as Eddie pocketed the phone. “How is the lovely lady doing?”

“She’s fine, she’s coming over in a bit to take you shopping,” Eddie said. 

“You’re not coming?” 

“I figured you’d be annoyed having me around at this point,” Eddie said, smirking so Richie knew he was only teasing.

“Please, as if I could get tired of you,” Richie said sincerely. Eddie smiled at him. Richie looked down and grinned at his shoes, feeling 13 years old again.

Bev arrived within 10 minutes, knocking a shave-and-a-haircut rhythm against the door before allowing herself in. 

“Oh, welcome, make yourself at home,” Eddie said, waving his hands around sarcastically.

“I’ve seen you in your tighty-whities, Kaspbrak,” Bev said, placing her purse down on the kitchen counter. “I hardly think I need to knock.”

“Oh, I remember that!” Richie said. “Ben and Bill couldn’t keep their eyes off of you that day, hopeless bastards.”

“You were there?” Eddie said, and Bev had turned to stare curiously at him as well.

“Uh,” Richie hesitated, crossing his arms. “Yeah. Yeah, I was there.”

The two stared at him for a drawn out moment, where Richie gradually felt a nervous sheen of sweat form on his forehead. Great, he _just_ took a shower.

Then Bev finally said, “When did you become the seventh Loser?” 

“Bev, Miss Scarlet, light of my life, apple of my eye,” Richie didn’t notice the way Eddie’s shoulders tensed up. “I’ve been here since the beginning. I was one of the first.”

Bev smiled. “Lucky you,” she said. And she was right. He felt lucky to have known Bill, Stan, and Eddie from the beginning. He wouldn’t change a single thing about that.

“Well, are you ready to go?” Bev said to Richie, already grabbing her purse and opening the door.

Bev walked ahead of him, and Richie was halfway out the door when Eddie grabbed hold of his arm.

“She’s committed to Ben, you know,” Eddie was saying, face scrunched up adorably but words making zero sense to Richie’s ears. “So, uh. If you’re thinking of pursuing anything, I would highly suggest you give up now, cause he’s, like, a model with a heart of gold, and—”

Richie shook his head so hard his hair scattered across his forehead, baffled. “Dude, what the fuck are you saying?”

“Just go, she’s waiting,” Eddie said, pushing Richie out the door.

The door slammed in Richie’s face, and he stood there staring at it for several seconds before whispering a confused, “What the fuck?”

Richie expected Bev to take him to some fancy store where they would tailor the clothes to fit him perfectly, but luckily she only took him to a nearby H&M. Five minutes into walking through aisles, Bev’s phone pinged, and Richie turned to watch her take it out and read the message out loud.

“‘Remember to test if people can see Richie now,’” Bev said. Richie grunted.

“Excuse me,” Bev said to a nearby stranger, startling them from their peaceful shopping experience. “Can you see this man?”

The stranger looked at where Bev pointed to Richie, who smiled shyly.

“Yes?” They said.

“Really?” Richie said, stepping closer to them and crouching down to look them in the eye, which was exactly how you’re not supposed to talk to short people, but he was too excited to care. “Big hairy Sasquatch looking motherfucker? You can see me? And hear me?”

The person leaned back, eyes wide in surprise and confusion. “Yes. Goodbye now.”

They scurried away, leaving Richie to grin unabashedly at Bev in happiness.

“I mean,” Richie said, “I figured it was likely, but knowing for certain that people can see me, a-and hear me now! Fuck, Bev!” Richie laughed and picked Bev up around the waist, spinning her around in the men’s pants aisle. She laughed along with him, his joy infectious.

“Careful, Rich, you might give a girl the wrong idea,” she said teasingly. And Richie knew she was joking, but it made him pause anyway.

“Uh, about that,” Richie said, putting her down gently.

“Oh, honey, I was only joking,” Bev said.

“Yeah, but apparently Eddie doesn’t know that,” Richie said. Bev tossed him a curious glance as she flung a few pairs of pants over her arm. Her silence encouraged him to continue. “Right before we left, Eddie stopped me and said some bullshit about how I shouldn’t pursue you because you’re taken and everything.”

Bev nodded. “Right. I mean, you aren’t, right?”

“No! No, God no, of course not,” Richie said, dismissing the idea completely.

“Well, no need to sound completely disgusted with the idea,” Bev smirked, nudging him in the side.

“It’s not the idea of dating you that disgusts me, Bev, it’s—” Richie cuts himself off sharply. He’s kept it in for so long it’s almost impossible to consider what will happen if he says it out loud.

Bev stops sorting through folded clothes to give him an open and curious look. And he trusts her. He trusts her with his life. He can trust her with this.

He takes a deep breath, and says shakily, “It’s the thought of dating a woman at all.”

He hadn’t realized he had closed his eyes until he felt a warm hand on his arm, and he opened his eyes to see Bev giving him a kind smile.

“It’s alright, Richie,” she said. “Thank you for telling me. I’m sure that was difficult.”

Richie gives her a wobbly smile in return, before pulling her into a hug, squishing the folded up pants between them. She’s much shorter than him, so he covers her body almost completely with his own, but the way her hands clutch to his shoulders comforts him in a way that makes him feel like he’s a teen in his mother’s warm embrace. Of course, he’ll never tell Bev that he compared her to his mom. 

“Is it rude to say I had a bit of an inkling?” Bev said.

Richie huffed. “Am I really that obvious?”

“No, not really. I just...knew, I think,” Bev said, and it didn’t make complete sense, but at the same time it did. “Plus, I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

Richie pulled away swiftly, turning to look at the button ups as if they were the most interesting item in the store. “Him? Uh,” he cleared his throat subtly, “who—who him? There’s no him.”

“Your acting needs work,” Bev said.

Richie gasped, offended, “Hey! I’ll have you know I’ve scored plenty of voice acting positions in my career.”

“You’re a voice actor?” Bev asked, grabbing a shirt off the rack and holding up to Richie’s chest. 

“Not exactly. I was a comedian, mainly. Acting came down the road as a bonus,” Richie said.

“What have you voice acted in?” 

“Uh, I was in that one animated movie that came out a few years back, Milo’s Big Break,” Richie said. “I voiced Milo.”

“Wasn’t that voiced by Andy Samberg?” 

“What? No, that was me.”

Bev took out her phone, typing up something in google. She handed it to Richie, who looked down at a cast list to see that the main character was, in fact, voiced by Andy Samberg.

“Son of a bitch!” Richie said. 

“I think you should tell Eddie.”

“What, that Andy stole my spotlight? Jeez, a man gets erased from existence _one time_.”

“I mean, you should tell Eddie about your feelings.”

Richie nearly drops the phone, but Bev is quick enough to steal it from his hands before he can do any damage. His palms feel clammy and gross, so he wipes them on his jeans—or, Eddie’s jeans. Remembering that he’s wearing Eddie’s clothes does not make him feel better in his already panicked state. 

“I think he already knows,” Richie said. 

“Knows that you’re gay or that you have feelings for him?”

“What’s the difference?” Richie huffs, his skin itching from hearing someone refer to him as that word. For once it wasn’t in a negative way, and he was still deciding how he felt about it. “The two are so intrinsically connected they might as well be the same thing,” Richie huffs.

“You mean...” Bev trailed off, letting him decide if he wanted to finish the rest of that thought.

“Yeah. I’ve had a schoolboy crush on our dear Spaghetti for a long fucking time. Decades, to be exact,” Richie said. “Even when I couldn’t remember the bastard it was like I was still waiting for an Eddie-sized hole to be filled in me. In more ways than one, if you know what I—”

“Beep beep, Richie,” Beverly snorted, before stopping herself. Richie stared at her, bug-eyed.

“Beep beep, huh?” Richie said.

“I don’t...I don’t know where that came from,” she said, but just from the look in her eyes, Richie knew she was feeling the same familiarity he was. The recognition was bone-deep.

“Don’t worry about it,” Richie said, smiling disbelievingly. “You can beep me any time.” He winked absurdly, and she laughed, and the moment was gone. 

“So, will you tell him?” She said again, and Richie groaned.

“I don’t know, Bevvy—”

“Don’t call me that,” she said sharply, and Richie stopped abruptly, alarmed. She looked embarrassed within seconds, rubbing a hand on her own arm. “Please.”

“Right, of course,” he said. A memory surfaces; him hiding outside her bedroom balcony with a pack of cigarettes, overhearing things shattering and a grown man shouting. He remembers wanting to break in and do something drastic, but she had made him promise never to go near her father because it would only make things worse for everybody. He still wishes he had done something. 

But she doesn’t know he knows these things, so he continues. “I just don’t know if I can tell him. There’s...there’s a bit more to the story than I’ve told you.”

“Oh?” She said. They were walking to the dressing rooms now, arms filled with pants and button ups. Richie demanded they include at least three button ups that were so loud and bright they were sure to give strangers on the street a migraine when they pass by him.

“Yeah, but, uh, I don’t really wanna talk about it through a wall so just come in here, I promise not to make a move,” Richie said as he opened an empty dressing stall. 

Bev let out a sharp laugh and entered the stall, sitting on the bench as Richie began to strip. “This makes up for the lost memory of you in your undies at the quarry.”

Richie snorted and nodded his head. “Just replace the tighty-whities with blue Fruit Of The Loom briefs and it’s like we never left.”

Bev shook her head, smiling at his antics. “So what is the extra stuff with Eddie you’re not telling me?”

Richie fumbled over a pants leg before getting his foot through properly, keeping his head lowered to hide the blush rising on his cheeks. “Right. Um. Basically, I think. I think we almost kissed,” he said the last part in such a rush, he was surprised Bev heard it.

“Oh shit! Really?” Bev shouted, and Richie shushed her furiously, finger over lip and everything. She pursed her lips before saying at a normal volume, “Sorry. Continue.”

Richie sighed. “Yes, really. We’ve had several moments, actually, and every time it’s so fucking electric and—and _hot_ , okay?”

Bev let out an interested ‘ _ooo_ ’ noise, wiggling in her seat excitedly. 

“It was hot and, and intimate and...what if that’s all it is for him?” Richie said, slowing his movements as he got deeper into thought. “I mean, he just divorced his wife, Bev. What—what if I’m just some kind of heat-of-the-moment, mid-life-crisis experiment, or whatever? What if we kiss and then he decides that was enough gay activity for one lifetime and marries some super hot model actress and—”

“Rich, you’re spiraling,” Bev interrupted him, and he turned to stare at her, red Hawaiian button up only half shrugged onto his shoulders. “Take a breath. Good. Now, listen to me.”

Richie sighed, letting the tension bleed out of his shoulders, allowing himself to calm down and listen.

Bev smiled kindly, “Give the guy some credit, will you? And at least talk to him before you decide his own feelings for him. Can you do that?”

Richie blinked, thinking it over in his head. So much could go wrong. But, he supposed, the opposite is true as well. If he is very, very lucky, perhaps a lot could go right.

“Just think about what I said, yeah?” Bev said.

Richie nodded, throwing on a ridiculous Voice to disguise the unbridled fear building in his chest. “Can do, Beverly, my dear.”

✢

When Richie walks into the apartment with hands filled with bags of clothes, he’s surprised to see Eddie cooking. 

“Shit, Eds, what is that? It smells delicious,” Richie said, dropping the bags to the floor.

“Put those somewhere where you won’t trip over them, you fucking animal,” Eddie said, wiping down his hands on the baby blue apron he’s wearing ( _cute_ ). 

Richie scoffed, snatching up the bags again to sit them on the coffee table in the living room. He returns quickly to stand at Eddie’s side, holding his hands out. Eddie gives him a look.

“Can you even cook?”

“I can make a mean mac n cheese, but that’s about as far as my culinary skills take me,” Richie said. “But it’s fine, just teach me.”

Eddie huffs, handing him a baking sheet with shrimp layered evenly across the surface. “Put this in the fridge, then you can help me prep the risotto.”

They work silently, apart from the smooth jazz Eddie had already playing on his Bluetooth speaker. It seemed that Eddie had been actively trying to calm himself down when Richie walked into the apartment, and Richie distantly wonders if Eddie still got those hypochondriac episodes like he did as a kid. A memory strikes him suddenly; him slipping into Eddie’s room through the window he always left open for Richie, only to find Eddie furiously scrubbing at his shoes with a toothbrush drenched in bleach, tears streaming from his tired eyes. 

How does Eddie remember that night? Does he remember someone being there to pull the worn down toothbrush from his grasp, talking him through his panic attack until his breathing steadied and he finally tired himself out enough to fall asleep? Does he think he had to do it alone? Has he felt just as alone as Richie this entire time?

He doesn’t know why, but this thought is what gives Richie the confidence to speak. Eddie is the bravest person he knows. He can be brave too. 

“Eds?” Richie croaks, wincing at how weak his voice sounds. His hands feel clammy, and he’s hyper-aware of the pause in between songs, the silence infinite and terrifying until a jazz rendition of _La Vie En Rose_ starts up. He clears his throat. “I, uh...need to talk to you.”

Eddie stops his movement for a second, just long enough for Richie to notice. His hand flexes against his hold on the wooden mixing spoon, then he continues to stir. “Everything alright?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I just...” Richie blows at a strand of hair in front of his eyes. He doesn’t have to do anything right now apart from watching Eddie do the stirring, so he keeps his hands occupied by adjusting his glasses. “You said something earlier. About—you know, uh. About me and Bev.”

“I didn’t mean to overstep,” Eddie said. “I thought I would just warn you, cause like I said, Ben is like totally perfect for her, and—”

“Dude, I know that. I know Ben, too, remember?” Richie said. 

“Oh. Right,” Eddie said.

“There is no universe in which I would go after Bev,” Richie said. “I mean, believe me, she’s gorgeous and an absolute catch. I would be lucky to have her. But, the thing is—”

“She’s like a sister to you,” Eddie tried to fill in the blanks. Richie laughed nervously. 

“That, and the fact that I’m gay.”

Eddie’s arm slows down from where it was stirring quicker and quicker. He looks up at Richie, and Richie tries desperately to understand the expression on Eddie’s face. He doesn’t _look_ mad, or disgusted. Richie knew there was a low chance that that would be the case, but he’s also not stupid—he remembers all of the disgusting things Eddie’s mom would say about people who “chose that lifestyle”. 

“Oh?” 

Richie laughs awkwardly, wringing his hands together. “Yeah.”

Eddie takes another moment to stare at Richie, in which Richie can feel the sweat stains forming under his armpits. Then, he smiles. “Thank you for telling me, Rich.”

Eddie goes back to the risotto, and Richie stands there, staring at him, until he helps him make the rest of the meal, as it seems to be the only thing he can think of to do. It was so simple. He still felt slightly sick, but not like he was on the verge of disintegrating into thin air at the drop of a hat. Soon enough he gets into the rhythm of making the rest of the food until it’s finally ready to be served.

Parmesan risotto with roasted shrimp. That’s what Eddie had decided to make. When Richie takes his first bite, he lets out an exaggerated moan around the fork in his mouth, chuckling when Eddie shoves his shoulder with a red face. Richie’s surprised he hadn’t been starving when he finally manifested into the physical world, or whatever you would call it. Eating now though reminds him that he hadn’t eaten for ages.

They sit together at the kitchen table, eating in relative silence, until Richie asks, “What made you decide to cook such a nice meal tonight?” 

“You haven’t eaten a proper meal since you, you know,” Eddie said, gesturing at Richie’s entire body, “appeared, or whatever.” Richie snorts, then Eddie shyly brings another forkful of risotto up to his mouth, and just before he takes a bite he mutters, “Thought I’d, I dunno. Make you something nice.”

And the way he says it, so soft and embarrassed, has Richie nearly combusting in his seat.

✢

The rest of the Losers have to go home soon enough, each of them promising to stay in touch. Richie stays with Eddie, because even though people can now see and hear him, the fact that they still don’t remember him just proves that he doesn’t fully exist yet—which means he has no house to return to. Not that he’d want to leave Eddie if there were.

Richie knows he has to try to make them remember. That’s what Mike said he has to do, he just doesn’t know how to do that. He talked to Eddie and Bev about the quarry, but they didn’t seem to remember at all. The only hint that Richie got that they even had the ability to remember him was when Bev slipped up and beeped him while they were shopping. So it’s possible. He knows that.

So why is he hesitating now?

He’s standing outside the apartment at half past 6, wearing only a short-sleeved button up and shorts, the air cold enough that the hair on his forearms feel frozen to his skin. Every gust of wind feels like icicles pressed into every exposed inch of his body.

“What the fuck are you doing out here? It’s fucking freezing!” Eddie comes up from behind Richie, and Richie smiles to himself. 

“Wanted to feel it,” Richie said. 

“Feel what, your ass falling off of your body?” Eddie said, shivering.

“Just,” Richie exhaled, watching his breath puff out of his mouth like steam. “Everything.”

Richie can see Eddie looking at him from the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t say anything else. He just turns to look out at the road like Richie was doing, stuffing his hands into his giant coat. 

“You don’t have to stay out here,” Richie said. “You’ve always been the worst out of all of us at handling the cold.”

“Fuck you,” he said, “I can handle it just fine.”

Richie chuckled, shaking his head.

“Besides,” Eddie continued. He rubbed his hand across his nose, sniffing, “It was getting too quiet inside without you.”

Richie tossed a glance at Eddie, who was steadfastly staring at the cars passing by. Richie grinned. “Aw, Spaghetti Man, you miss me that much?”

“That’s fucking awful, never call me that again.”

“You love it,” Richie said, bumping his shoulder into Eddie’s.

“Do I, though?” Eddie said, obviously teasing, but it made Richie pause.

“You used to. I think you did, at least,” Richie said, eyes downcast. 

They fell quiet for a moment, and Richie watched as the streetlights sensed the falling sunlight, flickering to life to illuminate the area in a soft orange glow.

“Why haven’t you tried harder to get us to remember?”

Richie startled, turning to stare at Eddie, who was now looking at him with imploring eyes. “Well shit, who says I’m not trying my hardest?”

“Sorry,” Eddie said, having the decency to look apologetic, “I didn’t mean to sound so harsh, it’s just...I dunno. We’ve only really talked about the past a few times, and it wasn’t really enough to get us to remember. That doesn’t mean you should give up trying, though.”

“I’m not giving up!” Richie said, hackles rising.

“Sorry, sorry! Fuck, I’m saying all the wrong things right now. Magically recovering memories is kind of new territory for me.”

“No it’s not,” Richie pointed out.

Eddie scoffed, smiling lightly, “You know what I mean.”

Richie sighed, long and low. “Yeah, I know what you mean. And you’re right about me not trying as hard as I could be. And it’s not even that I think it’s too difficult, it’s just...”

“You don’t think it will work?” Eddie asked.

Before he even knew what he was saying, Richie blurted out, “I’m afraid that it will.”

And he didn’t know that’s how he felt until he had said it, but he realizes it’s the truth. Eddie looks completely baffled, mouth agape. 

“I wasn’t a good person, Eddie,” Richie said, fueled by some invisible fire. “I’m not a good person. I’m a piece of shit and a coward who only found the courage to come out when I didn’t even exist anymore. What if I come back and I’m just the same as before, hiding behind jokes that aren’t even mine? What if I come back and—and you don’t—”

_And you don’t want me?_

He cuts himself off abruptly before he says it, but from the fire in Eddie’s eyes, it seemed he said enough for Eddie to connect the dots.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Eddie said, heated.

“I’m just saying, maybe it’s better this way,” Richie said. 

“Shut the fuck up!” Eddie shouted. A jogger crosses the street to avoid them, and Richie gives her a nervous wave before turning back to Eddie, who hasn’t stopped staring at him with the angriest look on his face Richie has ever seen. 

“C’mon, Eds—”

“Don’t you fucking dare ‘c’mon, Eds,’ me, dickhead. You’re my best fucking friend—I don’t know how, but you _are—_ and I fucking deserve to have my memories of you back. Not just that, you deserve to _exist_ , Richie fucking Tozier, you absolute moron. I don’t care if you weren’t a good person before, nothing is going to change how I—”

Eddie inhales sharply, and Richie holds his breath.

“How we feel about you,” Eddie finishes lamely. Richie tries to tamp down the disappointment in his gut. “I don’t care if you’re the biggest asshole in the universe, because I already know you’re the biggest asshole in the universe.”

Richie lets out a startled laugh, bringing his hand up to adjust his glasses, only to feel wetness on his cheek. 

“Dick,” Richie said, wiping his eyes. “You made me cry.”

“Yeah, well, you insulted my best friend,” Eddie said, much calmer now.

They shared a smile, quiet and appreciative. Richie took one last glance out at the road, then turned to Eddie and said, “How about we go back inside?”

“Oh, thank fuck, I thought my nose was gonna chip off from frostbite,” Eddie said, immediately booking it into the apartment. 

Richie laughed loudly, and Eddie yelled at him until Richie nearly tripped on his way in, then Eddie made him stand still so he could check to make sure he didn’t have a sprained ankle, despite Richie assuring him he was perfectly fine. Richie had never felt more in love.

As soon as they returned to the apartment, Eddie sat down on the couch and stared at Richie expectantly. 

“What?” Richie said.

“Tell me everything.”

Richie sat down across from him, eyeing him warily. “Like what?”

“Everything, Rich,” Eddie said. “Tell me every memory you have of us together since our childhood. Mike said we need to believe, but obviously just thinking really hard isn’t gonna cut it. I need something to help me believe.”

Richie fidgets in his seat, chewing on the inside of his right cheek. His eyes darted across the room, avoiding Eddie’s steady gaze. 

“Hey,” Eddie said, softer now. He grabs Richie’s hand, and Richie looks down at the point of contact like it’s about to go up in flames. “Do you trust me?”

“Is that even a question?” Richie said. “Of course I trust you. With all my heart, Eds.”

Eddie smiled. “Then trust me with this.”

Richie takes a deep breath, and Eddie copies him, encouraging. “You can do this,” Eddie said, like there was nothing in the world that he believed more.

So Richie starts to talk. He always thought that talking was what he was best at, but it’s difficult when he’s asked to relive every single memory he has of him and the love of his life. He starts off with the earliest memories, going in chronological order. Small things that he remembers from elementary school, middle school, high school.

“I remember the day you left,” Richie says at one point. He had been talking for hours, and he was exhausted. “You went to New York for college, and I remember wanting to go with you so badly. I even applied to the same university, but I didn’t get in despite having the best grades in our class. Guess that was more bullshit clown magic keeping us apart so we could forget each other.”

So far, Eddie had been listening intently, nodding along and reacting appropriately at the right moments, but there was no recognition in his features. Nothing was coming to him. It was like Richie was just telling him stories rather than their actual lives. Richie must have talked about dozens of memories at this point. 

Eventually, Richie stops to lean his elbows on his knees, gripping at the hair on his neck and groaning in frustration.

“Rich?”

“This isn’t working,” Richie said.

“Well, obviously it’s not working,” Eddie said, as if Richie would already know that.

“What?” Richie said, head snapping up. “Why the fuck not?”

“I thought you would get around to it eventually, but apparently not,” Eddie said. He shifted in his seat. “You’re not telling me something.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m telling you fucking everything, Spaghetti Head, that’s the whole point of this exercise.”

“Yes, it is the point, but there’s something you’re avoiding. I can see it in your eyes.”

“Oh yeah? Can you see it in my smile?”

“Do not quote Lionel Richie at me right now, dickhead, I’m fucking serious,” Eddie said. “If this is going to work, you need to tell me whatever it is that you’re skirting around.”

Richie gulps and looks away. He knows what Eddie is referring to, of course he does. 

“Even when you came back to Derry, this was the one thing you never remembered,” Richie said.

“All the more reason to tell me,” Eddie said.

Richie takes a deep breath, letting the tension drain from his shoulders as he breathes out. Just start talking, and don’t stop until it’s out. Just start talking. 

“Do you remember the Kissing Bridge?” Richie asks.

“Yeah, of course, that’s where Ben got carved up by Bowers.”

Richie scoffs. “Right, well. Henry wasn’t the only one carving names. I don’t know why I wasn’t more careful about it, anyone could have seen me, and—well, someone did. More specifically, you.” Richie swallows around the dryness in his throat, forcing himself to say it. “Plain as fucking day, you caught me writing—”

_R + E. That’s what Eddie saw when he made his way to the Kissing Bridge with a pocket knife in hand. He had stolen it from the junk drawer in the kitchen that every household has. God knows what his mother would do if she found out he was hanging onto such a dangerous weapon._

_But his mind wasn’t on her. His mind was on the boy in front of him, blowing a stray piece of hair away from his eye as he scratched and carved away at the aging wood, blowing on it every few seconds to get rid of the excess shavings. Eddie kicked a pebble on the ground towards Richie, after hiding his own knife in his pocket. Only, at the sound of movement, Richie whipped around with his knife poised like a dagger, face pale and undeniably frightened. Eddie understood why when his eyes traced over the initials in the wood, one of Richie’s hands still braced against it, right next to the R._

“R plus E,” Eddie whispers, like a prayer, so silent. “R plus E. Oh my god.”

He remembers—he remembers everything. It knocks the breath out of him, and he nearly falls over, but Richie catches him when he sees Eddie teetering off the side of the couch. 

“Eddie—”

“I remember,” Eddie says, over and over. “I remember. I remember. Richie, fuck, I remember.”

In Atlanta, Georgia, Stanley Uris bolts upright in bed, his wife startling next to him. He remembers the day Richie went to his bar mitzvah when no one else came. 

In Orlando, Florida, Mike Hanlon stumbles on his evening walk. He remembers when Richie declared a rock war with Henry Bowers just to protect him, a kid he’d never met before. 

All at once, they remember him. Resident Trashmouth and seventh Loser, Richie Tozier.

Back in New York, a string of messages begin to blow up Eddie’s phone, but he’s only focusing on one thing, and that’s Richie fucking Tozier.

“Eddie, do you—you seriously—” Richie holds onto Eddie, keeping him steady. He looks into his eyes, and Eddie nods.

“Yes, yes, I remember you, I do,” Eddie said, eyes stinging, face crumpling from the overwhelming amount of emotions washing over him. “Fuck. Fuck, Rich, it’s you.”

“Yeah, buddy, it’s me,” Richie said, laughing through tears and the lump in his throat.

“Don’t call me buddy when I’m about to kiss you,” Eddie said, and Richie blanches.

“When you’re wh—” Richie starts, but Eddie doesn’t wait for him to finish.

Eddie grabs Richie by the face, and Richie barely has time to place his hands on Eddie’s waist before Eddie is bringing their lips together. He presses into Richie as if he’ll disappear again if he lets go.

“Fuck, Richie,” Eddie says in between kisses, growing more desperate with each second that passes. 

“Eddie, god,” Richie replies, returning every kiss with just as much fervor. “I missed you, I missed you so much.”

They’re crying too much to continue. They pull back, but not too far, unable to handle being separated any more than they have to be. They let their foreheads rest against each other, breathing together.

“I missed you too,” Eddie said. “I don’t know how it’s possible, but I did, I missed you so fucking much. Just like during those 27 years apart, I didn’t remember you, but god, I missed you.”

And Richie understands. He knows what it felt like, not knowing what he was missing but knowing that it was so, so important. And now he has him, he really, truly has him. 

“Holy shit, wait,” Eddie said.

“Eddie, I love you, but I’m fucking tired of waiting,” Richie said.

“Okay, we’re definitely coming back to that whole ‘I love you’ thing, because _fuck_ you for confessing first. But seriously—does this mean you’re back? Like, really truly back?” Eddie said, pulling back to look at Richie. 

Richie’s eyes widen, and Eddie snatches his phone from the coffee table. There are numerous messages from the Losers groupchat that he’ll have to return to. He pulls up safari and does a quick google search.

“Comedian Richie Tozier goes missing after on-stage meltdown,” Richie reads the title of the article out loud when Eddie shows him his phone screen.

“You had a meltdown on stage?” Eddie asked, turning to look at Richie in alarm.

“That’s the part you’re focusing on?” Richie said, incredulous.

“Well, at least this confirms it,” Eddie said. “You’re back. For good.”

“Yeah, and apparently I’ve been missing the whole time.”

“We can deal with that later.”

Richie lets out a disbelieving breath, because they _can_ deal with it later. Together. With all the shit he’ll be going back to, at least he won’t be going back alone.

“I think...you should kiss me again,” Richie says.

“Alright,” Eddie says.

“And maybe go on dates. And maybe also get married and adopt a dog or something, if you want.”

“Okay,” Eddie says, smiling.

“Okay,” Richie says, smiling just as wide.

✢

Later that night, when the two are wrapped in each other’s arms, Richie turns to Eddie with sleep in his eyes and pokes him in the arm.

“What, asshole?” Eddie said, snuggling closer to him despite the grumpiness in his tone.

“You know how I mentioned adopting a dog together?”

“I do remember you proposing to me approximately two minutes after I remembered you existed, yes.”

“Shit, I did do that, didn’t I?” Richie said, alarmed.

“Yes, you did. And I said yes, so don’t start panicking now. What were you going to say?”

“Right, well. I was thinking—maybe we can get a turtle too.”

Eddie shifts until he is sitting upright, staring down at Richie with one eye crinkled shut, hair pressed against his head on one side and completely askew on the other. Richie loves him.

“Since when do you like turtles?”

“I don’t know,” Richie said. “It just feels right.”

Eddie blinks at him, then nods his head. “Yeah. Yeah, a turtle sounds nice.”

Eddie lies back down, wrapping his arms and legs around Richie until Richie is the only thing he can feel. Richie chuckles, holding him just as closely. He’s waited years to be where he is now. If it took being wiped from existence to get there, he’s glad it happened. 

Somewhere far away, a turtle lets out a peculiar sound that one might just call a laugh. He turns and slips silently into a lake, satisfied with his work. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! you can find me @slugboytozier on twitter!


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